


Leave

by DinerGuy



Category: The Brave (TV 2017)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Persons, Suspense, Teamwork, Whump, and Patton is fantastic, and poor Dalton gets the short end of the stick, because you all should know me by now, but he is epic of course, but he wishes those two-legs could stay out of trouble more, plenty of that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-14 04:40:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14128281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinerGuy/pseuds/DinerGuy
Summary: The team is home on leave when Dalton suddenly vanishes. Shattered glass, splintered wood, and splattered blood in his living room tell a tale that sends the others scrambling to find their leader. But the question is, can Dalton hold out until they do?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You can all blame this one on Marlab. Also, huge thanks to frankie_mcstein for cheering me, listening to all of my complaining about plot things, and reading it over before I posted to make sure I didn't make too big a fool of myself.
> 
> Beyond that, nothing was officially betaed by anyone other than the Google Docs spellchecker, so you can blame it for everything else.
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply. Basically, I own nothing recognizable. Also, I tried doing a little research on Google Maps but I'm not 100% sure all of my distances and locations line up perfectly, so don't hate me too much if any of you are familiar with the DC/Virginia area and find any factual errors with my content.

“Hey, Noah!” The voice stops the young man in his tracks as he hurries down the office hallway.

“Um, hey, Dalton.” It’s still a little weird seeing a face along with the voice; Noah’s used to talking to the team over a satellite connection. Honestly, he’s almost forgotten they’re back from deployment, and it’s not until the other man's voice cuts into his thoughts that he really remembers. “How's it going?”

“Good,” Dalton replies cheerfully. “Hey, I’m about to head into a meeting with some top brass guys, but I have a favor to ask you.”

Errand momentarily forgotten, Noah nods. “Okay, sure. What’s up?”

“You know how I brought the dog home from base with me?” Dalton begins.

“Sure.”

“Well, Patton’s getting a full checkup at the vet’s, and they’re quarantining him as a precaution in case he brought home anything nasty,” Dalton explains. “It’s just basic procedure, but they asked for a secondary contact in case they can’t reach me.” He smirks. “And with the way meetings are around here, I’m not sure that _won’t_ happen. Do you mind grabbing Patton when he’s ready to come home if I can’t for some reason?”

Noah isn’t sure what he was expecting to hear, but this definitely isn’t it. However, it won’t be too hard to do, and Campbell _has_ mentioned she’s going to try to get the team through the debriefing process as quickly as possible. Besides, it’s the least Noah can do to help out a guy who’s averted international catastrophes more times than anyone can count.

“Oh, um, I guess so,” he replies with a nod. He fishes in his pocket and comes up with a scrap of paper and a pen. “Here,” he says, scribbling on the paper. “Give them my number, and they can call me if they need me.”

Dalton grins and reaches out to clap Noah on the shoulder. “Great!” he acknowledges. “There’s a spare key in a loose brick above the third step if you need it, and I’ve already got a crate set up for him in the laundry room. Thanks, Noah!” Then he turns and jogs back down the hallway.

If not for the phone call the next day around noon, Noah might not have thought twice about the exchange. He’s just run out to grab lunch and is unlocking his car when his phone starts to buzz in his pocket. Glancing at the screen, he frowns when he doesn’t recognize the number, but he presses the button to answer it anyway. “Noah Morgenthau.”

 _“Hi, Mr. Morgenthau?”_ an almost-too-cheerful woman chirps on the other end of the line.

“Yes, this is he,” Noah responds, swinging open his car door and shifting to toss his jacket onto the passenger seat. “How can I help you?”

 _“This is Tillie from Dr. Carlisle’s office,”_ the woman continues just as happily. _“We have you down as a contact for Patton here.”_

Ah, so it’s the vet’s office Dalton had mentioned the day before, Noah notes to himself. “Yes, that’s right,” he says out loud, nodding absently as he ducks into the driver’s seat.

_“Yes, well, we left several messages for the primary contact on file, but Mr. Dalton did say we should call you if he didn’t answer. Something about work responsibilities?”_

“Mhm. Okay, when do I need to come get, uh, Patton?” Noah asks.

Tillie clears her throat. _“Well, just before we close, but the sooner, the better. He’s not a huge fan of the kennel,”_ she adds with a chuckle. _“We’ll be here until six tonight.”_

After getting the office address from Tillie, Noah glances at the clock on his dashboard. He pauses for a moment, then sighs as he decides it’s best to get the dog right then. There are no current missions he needs to get back to helping manage, but that doesn’t mean nothing will come up. If he takes care of Patton over his lunch break, he’ll be sure to complete the errand. Otherwise, the poor dog might end up boarded for another night—which is most likely not cheap. And he _has_ promised Dalton…

Decision made, Noah drops his phone onto the passenger seat, then puts the car into reverse. He is fortunate enough to hit all green lights the whole way to the vet’s, and before long, he’s pulling up to Dalton’s place. It’s simple and nondescript, the left half of a duplex townhouse unit. Noah parks along the curb, then turns off the ignition and exits the vehicle. Circling to the sidewalk, he reaches for the handle of the back door. “Come on, Patton,” Noah says, swinging it open.

The dog wags his tail and barks happily as his leash is clipped onto his collar. As soon as Noah steps back from the door, the dog bolts out of the car, practically dragging the man down the sidewalk. Noah tugs back against the pull on the leash. “Nuh-uh, Patton; come on. This way.” They stride up the three steps from the sidewalk to the front door, and Patton scrambles to go faster—then suddenly stops in his tracks. The hair along the middle of his back rises noticeably, and his entire body stiffens.

“What is it, boy?” Noah asks. The animal seems to be fixated on Dalton’s front door, and Noah glances that way. “What…” He trails off as he notices the door is hanging ajar.

Stomach sinking, Noah steps forward slowly. He reaches into his pocket for his phone even as he eases the door open with his elbow. Patton is whining and growling deep in his throat, but Noah holds the leash tightly so as not to let the dog go rushing into the foyer before he has a chance to take it in himself.

The sight of an overturned floor lamp, its bulb shattered on the floorboards around it, sets butterflies fluttering in his gut. As his eyes adjust to the dark interior of the house, the very obvious spatter of blood on the far wall and crushed coffee table meet his gaze. It’s enough to send him back down the steps, pulling a howling Patton with him and dialing Campbell’s number as fast as he can pull it up on his phone.

* * *

Dalton wakes with a start, his quick intake of breath setting him to coughing even before he can open his eyes. He winces and rides out the fit, then takes in a slow, ragged breath. There is a dull ache somewhere in the back of his head, but he pushes past it in favor of concentrating on keeping his lungs on their best behavior. Once his breathing is back under control, he opens his eyes—and then promptly squeezes them shut again.

There is a bright light somewhere above him, which only serves to intensify the pounding in his head. All at once, his pulse is roaring in his ears, and his stomach is churning like it’s about to expel all of its contents at once. He takes another series of painstakingly-controlled breaths, desperately trying to put everything back to rights. The last thing he needs is to be sick. His head is already pounding, and he knows throwing up will do him no favors.

The thought of his team flashes to his mind, and he feels as if his heart has just dropped into his roiling stomach. They are nowhere to be seen, but that makes it even worse, because the moment he wonders if they are in trouble is the moment he suddenly realizes he has no idea how he’s gotten where he is. His memory is a blur. The harder he tries to concentrate, the worse his headache gets, until he has both hands on either side of his head and his eyes shut against the pain. Dalton takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He needs to focus, and he needs to do it now if he hopes to get out of… wherever he is.

And he needs to get out of wherever he is so he can find his team.

If they’re hurt, Dalton is going to kill someone.

Even as he fights to regain control of his senses, his mind is busily cataloguing the things he _can_ make out. He’s lying on what feels like a cold, concrete floor. Judging from the difference in temperature between the portion of the floor underneath him and the concrete a little farther out, he’s been there for a significant amount of time. He instinctively moves to check his watch, but when he cracks one eye open to glance at his wrist, he realizes the device is missing.

Dalton groans and lays his forearm over his eyes. He racks his brain, trying to recall some detail to tell him what is happening, but he cannot remember much from… when was it? The night before? He has no idea how long he’s been unconscious.

Also, it is _freezing._ Dalton isn’t sure if it’s because he is in shock or if the room really is at an extremely low temperature. Either way, he can already feel the goosebumps prickling at his bare arms. It had seemed plenty warm enough for his simple black t-shirt and jeans when he’d donned them to go in for the round of meetings, but now, the thin fabric is doing nothing to block out the frigid temperature in the basement. Dalton shivers again as another chill runs up his spine.

Forcing his eyes back open, he squints against the harsh lighting. Once his vision adjusts, he can see the source of the illumination is coming from a single, exposed bulb hanging from the ceiling. He pushes to a sitting position, moving slowly and carefully, using the wall behind him for support. Once he is upright, he rests his left elbow on his knee and puts up his hand to block the bulb from his line of sight. It helps a little, at least enough for him to study his surroundings.

The bare bones of a place that probably hasn’t been used in years meets his eyes. The walls and floor are plain concrete. The ceiling seems to be constructed of old wooden planks with beams spaced every two feet along the length of the small room, and Dalton estimates the room is only about twenty feet by twenty feet. There are no windows in any of the walls, and a steep, narrow staircase on the far side of the room leads up to a solid-looking wooden door. Other than a dented, metal chair sitting against the far wall, the room is completely empty, and its only source of light is the hanging bulb. Water is trickling down the wall in a few places, and Dalton makes a face. Great. He’s locked in a basement who-knows-where.

A blinking red dot high up on the wall near the stairs catches his eye, and he frowns. Tilting his head, he tries to concentrate on the source. He can’t focus though; the room is relatively small, but between the bright light above him and his thundering headache, he just can’t make out many details.

Dalton shifts his weight and winces at the stiffness of his muscles. Ignoring it as much as he can, he uses his right hand to push off of the ground, still keeping his left up between him and the offending light bulb. He makes it almost all the way upright before his head starts swimming again, but he clenches his jaw and continues slowly. Once he’s on his feet, he stands still for a moment, steadying himself until he is sure he can make it across the room. Then he starts forward slowly and carefully and manages to get to the staircase without incident. When he is finally leaning against the wall beside the stairs, he squints up at the ceiling, able to see the flashing dot much more clearly now.

It’s coming from a small, circular device mounted just under the right angle where the wall and ceiling meet. It has to be a camera, which only increases Dalton’s apprehension about what he is doing in the basement. Shaking his head, he turns for the door. He’s fairly certain whoever dumped him here won’t have been careless enough to leave it unlocked, but he has to try.

There is no handrail on the flight of steps, so Dalton has to use the wall on his left side to keep him steady as he mounts the stairs. His right hand is out at his side in an attempt to keep his balance. With every step, his head spins, and he’s forced to pause for a moment each time until he regains his bearings. After what seems like an eternity, he finally makes it up to the door. He tries the handle but finds it locked tightly. That figures. Dalton rattles the knob to try to dislodge it, then leans back and rams the door with his shoulder. It doesn’t budge, and the only reward he receives for his efforts is such a disruption of his equilibrium he thinks he might go headfirst down the stairs.

Panting at the exertion, Dalton sinks onto the steps. He props his elbows on his knees and rests his forehead on his arms. His headache is a persistent little troublemaker and is back to hammering away full-force. He grunts and closes his eyes, trying to shut out the light in hopes it will help alleviate his headache. A sudden shiver runs down his spine, and he instinctively draws his legs a little closer to his chest and wraps his arms around his knees. The damp cold of the basement is starting to seep into his very bones, and he can feel the goosebumps rising along his arms and the back of his neck.

Reaching for something to take his mind off the pain, he takes a shallow breath and tries to focus on how he’s gotten where he is in the first place. He remembers going into the office for several meetings… and then he’d asked Noah to get Patton, he suddenly recalls. He isn’t sure if he hopes Noah has gotten the dog already, because who knows how long Patton has been at the house by himself if so. Dalton sighs; hopefully someone has noticed him missing by now, for Patton’s sake as well as his own.

With another deep breath, Dalton refocuses on retracing his steps. After what had seemed like an endless round of meetings, he’d headed home… had nodded a greeting to a young man passing by on the sidewalk… had turned for the stairs to his front door… had heard a noise behind him and started to turn… and then his knees had suddenly grown weak and given out on him! Dalton blinks as memories of stumbling for his door come rushing back. He can remember desperately trying to get inside before he was violently ill all over his front steps… but as soon as he’d opened his front door, someone had jumped him from behind… The memory of the fight that had ensued is a complete blur, and he knows he’d gotten in some good licks, but whatever had made him so sick had drained his energy at an alarming rate…

An image suddenly flashes to his mind. He’s lying on his back on his living room floor, a dark figure looming above him. Oddly enough, he can vividly feel the pieces of what used to be his coffee table underneath his back and pain flaring up his spine into his head. Then he blinks, and the next thing he remembers, he’s being dragged out of a vehicle with his hands tied behind his back.

He vaguely recalls stumbling through the woods, but it feels like he’s grasping for wisps of a long-past nightmare. A figure had been behind him, shoving him forward along the path, and he knows he’d fallen a few times. Then they’d arrived at a small structure, and Dalton remembers nearly pitching down a flight of stairs—the same ones where he is sitting now, he realizes—before a strong hand had grabbed his forearm and manhandled him the rest of the way. The last thing he can remember is collapsing against the wall.

Dalton groans again and closes his eyes. His headache has only intensified the more he’s tried to concentrate on his memories; his head feels like it is going to explode at any moment, and he can’t do anything about it. He just hopes there’s enough evidence and witnesses for the team to track him down, because he’s realizing with sickening clarity that there is no way out of this basement.

He’s trapped.

* * *

“What do we know?” Patricia is talking before the door closes behind her. She strides down the short aisle between her team’s desks until she comes to a stop next to the large display at the front of the room.

Noah and Hannah are already on their feet, both ready with information the moment she looks at them.

“Well, we went back through all of the camera footage we can find around Dalton’s street,” Noah says, nodding to the video still paused on the large screen. The image is of a large black truck running a red light; the timestamp indicates the video is from the night before. “A traffic camera down the street from his place caught this vehicle,” he gestures to the image of the truck, “circling the block several times.”

“Lost driver?” Patricia arches an eyebrow.

Noah shakes his head. “Not unless that lost driver suddenly had reason to speed through a red light about ten minutes later.”

“We ran the plates,” Hannah jumps in before Patricia can voice the question. “No go there; it was reported stolen from the parking lot of a local store the day before yesterday. The owner has no connections of any sort to Dalton or any criminal organizations, so it’s probable whoever took the vehicle is the one behind Dalton’s disappearance. I’ve read through the report,” she continues, “but the cops have no idea who took the truck. There were no cameras and no witnesses.”

As Hannah is speaking, Noah reaches past the crinkled bag of pork rinds lying on his desk to tap a series of keys on his computer. A new image pops up on the screen. “The police may have hit a dead end, but we do have a few more resources at our disposal. We were able to track the truck to a house about twenty minutes out of the city, in McLean, Virginia. Belongs to one Anton Galkin.” He glances at his leader. “Any guesses to who he is?”

Folding her arms, Patricia fixes him with a stare. When she speaks next, her tone is short and clipped. “Noah, the rest of the team is waiting in the conference room for what they think is one final debrief. I haven’t told them what’s going on because I didn’t want to worry them until I had all the information. Would you care to go play guessing games with them or would you like to tell me what you found?”

“Right,” he replies, nodding nervously. “Okay, so, he’s the son of, uh, Timur Galkin, who was killed during one of our ops years ago. Anton moved the States shortly afterward; he’s got a degree in mechanical engineering and was able to get in on a work visa.”

Patricia blinks. “So this is revenge?”

“It seems like it,” Hannah says with a nod. “Their target was a trafficking ring operating out of a border town in Russia; an American college student on a summer trip had been kidnapped and Dalton’s team at the time was assigned to get her back. Several of the traffickers were killed during the operation, including Galkin—and according to all of the after-action reports, Dalton’s the one who fired the shot that took him out. At the time, Anton was still living in that same small town near his extended family,” she continues. “He never applied to move to the US until after his father was killed.”

Sighing, Patricia fidgets with the pair of glasses in her hand. “Do we have any other evidence Anton Galkin is the one at play here?”

Her question prompts Noah to lean over his keyboard again. “Actually, yes. After we found the info on the truck, we went back through other security cameras in the area. There’s nothing concrete, but Dalton’s neighbors have one set up to cover their porch that happens to have a view of the street. The quality is nowhere near good enough to get an actual license plate, but it captured this from shortly before the truck ran the light.”

Patricia slides her glasses back on as she looks up at the screen. There’s a grainy, green-tinted video now playing of a dark truck pulling up to the curb and a shadowy figure exiting the driver’s side. The figure glances around furtively before heading out of frame. Noah taps to fast forward the footage, then again to play the video in real time as the figure reappears—this time, lugging a still form immediately recognizable as Dalton’s, even with the low quality of the footage.

Her expression hardening, Patricia looks to Noah. “Any chance the footage was clear enough for an ID on the driver?”

“No,” Noah shakes his head morosely. “We got a twenty-five percent match to Anton Galkin, but that’s nowhere near a positive identification.”

“It’s good enough to question him,” Patricia says firmly. “Are we sure the truck hasn’t left the house since it pulled in last night?”

It’s Hannah’s turn to shake her head now. “No. According to everything we’re seeing, the stolen vehicle is still parked in Galkin’s driveway. Of course, we can’t fully track its journey from Dalton’s place to there, but it has definitely been there a while.”

Frowning, Patricia pinches the bridge of her nose. “The question is, how did Galkin find out where Dalton lives?”

Noah gives a shake of his head. “We’re not sure…” he says slowly. “Maybe a leak?”

“We need to find out before any more of our people are put in danger.” Patricia looks from Hannah to Noah and back again. “Dig into _anyone_ who would have known about that op or had access to be able to find out, and see if they’ve ever even _thought_ about Anton Galkin. We need to know how he knew Dalton killed his father and if he’s talked to _anyone_ who would have known where Dalton lives.” She uncrosses her arms and turns to head back through the door. “I’m going brief the team. Our window shrinks more every second he’s missing.”

A few minutes later, she’s standing at the head of a conference table in one of the DIA’s meeting rooms. The four members of Dalton’s team had been lounging back in the rolling chairs when Patricia had walked in moments before, tossing around banter and waiting for the meeting to start. Patricia knows they had all noticed Dalton was missing, and she also knows none of them had suspected exactly why—until she had told them.

Now they were all deadly serious, leaning in as if their next breaths depended on the deputy director’s next words.

They also all look like they want to shoot something.

“So you’re saying this lowlife has Top but we don’t know where?” McG growls.

Gesturing to printouts of the stolen truck and Galkin’s passport photo—showing the sturdily-built, clean-shaven man staring seriously at the camera—spread out between the team members, Patricia replies, “We have reason to believe Galkin is the one who took Dalton, and our intel shows the truck hasn’t left his house since last night.” She looks around at the four teammates again, noting with satisfaction the determination on their faces. That’s good. Now she just needs them to channel their anger into the mission.

Then she sighs; they aren’t going to like this next part. “However, there are a few rules we are supposed to play by since this op is taking place on American soil.”

She is right. The team does _not_ look happy.

“They’ve got Top,” Jaz speaks up, glancing around the table. “He’d do whatever it takes to get any of us back if it was him here,” she adds with conviction.

The reference to what happened with Jaz in Iran is not lost on Patricia. The older woman sighs. “Even still,” she says, “there are a set of policies and procedures we’re supposed to play by. Technically—legally—that’s what I have to tell you. Follow the rules, don’t do anything risky, keep your noses clean.” She looks around the table at the team, painfully aware there is one more empty chair than there should be. “But within the confines of this room, I will say you all have _whatever_ support you need to do whatever it takes to save Dalton.”

The four relax slightly at her words, and Patricia gives them a tight smile. “Here.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out four black identification cases. “DIA badges with fake names. Someone may have learned Dalton’s true identity, but that’s not going to happen to the rest of you if I can help it. Use them as needed on this op. Now go on; get out there. Find out what you can from Galkin, and get Dalton back.”

She isn’t even done with her sentence before the team shoots up from their chairs. McG barely catches his before it topples backward to the floor. Patricia shakes her head and removes her glasses. “And try not to kill too many people?” she adds in parting.

The looks the four exchange are not lost on the deputy director as they pause and then continue toward the door. She sighs as she watches them go, then massages the bridge of her nose with her free hand. “They're going to kill everyone,” she mutters.

* * *

The door at the top of the stairs creaking open sends Dalton’s head up so quickly the room spins around him for the umpteenth time. He’s since moved back to the corner where he’d awoken earlier and now has his back against the wall and his knees drawn up against his chest. He’s done his best to stay alert, knowing whoever had left him in the basement could be returning at any time. However, the light overhead had only served to exacerbate the constant pounding in his head, so he’d dropped his forehead onto his knees and closed his eyes.

He isn’t quite sure when he dozed off, but now he finds himself groggily blinking to bring the room into focus. Someone is coming down the stairs, but Dalton can’t make out any details past the bright light and his screaming headache. All he can see is the shadowy figure of a sturdily-built man somewhere in the midst of his blurry surroundings.

“Hello, Adam Dalton,” the man intones, his footsteps _thudding_ solidly on the steps as he descends. “Good to see you awake.”

Dalton frowns. He immediately places the light Russian accent behind the man’s words. It sounds Americanized, as if the man has spent more time in the States recently than overseas, but the lilt to his voice is definitely there. That is a clue—to what, Dalton doesn’t know yet, but he files it away in the back of his mind. The footsteps continue, and now the man steps down into view. He’s in his early twenties, but even from across the room, Dalton can see how well-built the young man is.

Shifting his weight, Dalton waits for the distance between them to close enough for him to rush his captor. He knew he won’t be able to hold his own very long against the bigger man, not with the headache clouding his vision. Even if he were feeling a hundred percent at the moment, it would be a close fight. Dalton knows he will have to use the element of surprise if he hopes to make it out of here.

As the man closes the distance, Dalton counts off the seconds, then launches upward. He manages to catch the man in the stomach, and he pushes forward, forcing the man back a few steps and then following up with a right hook under the chin. Before he can land a third strike, however, his opponent whirls and drives his own fist toward Dalton’s face. Although Dalton dodges, the quick movement throws him off balance, and before he can recover, the man lands a solid fist on his temple. Coupled with the headache already clouding Dalton’s brain, it is enough to darken his vision and send him tumbling to the floor. He vaguely feels himself falling, but by the time he moves to catch himself, it’s too late. He’s unconscious before he lands in a heap on the unforgiving concrete.

When his eyes next flicker open, he finds himself staring into two blue eyes crinkling with a humorless smile. The man straightens. “Finally. There you are.” He snorts a chuckle. “I was starting to think you were not going to wake up again.”

If only. Dalton groans. He just wants to go back to sleep. Now that he’s awake, his headache is back in full force. Trying to still his stomach, he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, rolling his neck in an attempt to alleviate some of the aching from his muscles. When he tries to shift in his seat, he suddenly realizes he’s sitting in the metal chair he had noticed before. It is now in the middle of the room, underneath the light, and he’s strapped to it by zip ties at his wrists and ankles. A series of firm tugs tells him they aren’t coming loose without help.

“Now,” the man says, standing to his feet and crossing his arms, “let us get down to business, shall we? I need you to tell me exactly what I want to know—”

“Yeah? Well, I need a stiff drink and about three days of uninterrupted sleep,” Dalton retorts. “But I guess neither of us are getting what we want, are we?”

Without warning, the man slaps Dalton across the face. The loud _crack_ of the open palm against his cheek is nothing compared to the stinging pain that accompanies it and flares up through his head.

“Tell me about Timur Galkin,” comes the demand. “I want to hear the story from your own mouth.”

Dalton blinks. “Wha—” He clears his throat and tries again. “What?”

His words are immediately met with another blow, this one a fist to the stomach. “Galkin! Timur Galkin! I want to know how you justify what happened to him!”

Another punch, and Dalton can’t hold back a guttural growl as he gasps for the air the man’s fist has driven from his lungs. “Galkin?” Dalton pants, trying to think past the pain to place the name with a face in his memory. “I… I don’t know.”

“Don’t play games with me!” The man leans down and glares in Dalton’s face. His eyes flash in anger. “You were there. I saw you. I couldn’t do anything about it then, but believe me, I have _not_ forgotten you!”

The next blow jerks Dalton’s head to the side, and he grunts in pain at the impact. He shakes his head to clear it, noting with an odd satisfaction the split skin on the man’s knuckles. Dalton works his jaw, carefully making sure nothing is broken, as he meets the man’s gaze with a steely one of his own.

This seems to make the man even angrier. “Admit it!” he exclaims. “You killed Timur Galkin.”

Dalton just shifts his gaze to stare straight ahead and doesn’t even blink at the words. At this point, he knows he can’t offer any information that will calm the man, so he opts to stay silent, even as the man continues ranting.

“I was there!” The man is yelling now as he plunges a fist into Dalton’s stomach with a blow that again leaves the other man gasping and coughing for air. “I saw you fire the shot!” His voice breaks momentarily, then his cheek bulges as he clenches his jaw. “You didn’t think you could just murder someone and get away with it, did you?”

Dalton swallows hard against the roiling in his stomach and cleared his throat. “I promise… if I did… he had it coming.”

With an unintelligible yell of anger, the man lunges forward. Tied to the chair as he is, Dalton cannot do anything to protect himself from the onslaught of blows raining down on him as the other man seems to let all of his hatred out at once. Curling in on himself as much as he can, Dalton retreats to a corner of his mind to wait out the man’s fury.

And all the while, the little red light across the room just keeps on blinking.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who has read, kudo-ed, and reviewed so far! You make my heart happy. :)
> 
> (PS I know that what I set up in the last chapter as Dalton's living arrangements might not turn out to be canon, but the show hasn't given me anything to use, so I just went with it.)

_“Galkin should still be there.”_ Patricia’s voice comes through the comms as Preach turns the wheel to pull onto a quiet neighborhood street. _“Proceed with caution. Remember; we need him_ alive, _or he can’t tell us where he’s got Dalton.”_

“Roger that,” McG growls under his breath, catching Jaz’s eye as she sends him an understanding look from across the backseat of the SUV.

Amir is in the passenger seat, studying a map spread out across his lap and comparing it to information on the screen of his phone. “Okay, keep going down this street about a quarter of a mile,” he tells the older man next to him, “then take a right into the culdesac up ahead. Galkin’s is the third house in the circle.”

Slowly, Preach eases the vehicle down the street toward their final turn.

As the vehicle slows, Amir turns to glance at the rear seats. “Okay, everyone,” he says. “Be smart. We can’t go in guns blazing; it’s a little dicier now that we’re operating on American soil. We’re going to need to play this low-profile. Leave the rifles in the vehicle; keep your sidearms holstered but ready if needed. Jaz, you come to the door with me. Preach and McG, hang back in the vehicle until we’re inside. Got it?”

Under any other circumstances, at least one of the team would have had a reply ready, but no one is quite in the mood for banter at the moment. The other three just nod. “Got it,” they chorus.

  
Moments later, the SUV bounces over the edge of the curb at the end of Galkin’s driveway. Jaz throws open the back door as Amir exits the passenger side of the vehicle, and the two of them hurry up the sidewalk to the front steps. With one backward glance over his shoulder as he mounts the steps, Amir turns back to the front door and knocks briskly.

There is a brief pause, then the sound of someone undoing a deadbolt. The door swings open, and Anton Galkin peers out at them. The man’s bright blue eyes hold a hint of confusion as he looks between Amir and Jaz and then back again. “Can I help you?” he asks slowly.

“Anton Galkin?” Amir asks.

The man nods. “Yes?”

Amir flips open the small black case Campbell had given him and lifts it so the man can see his badge and picture. “I’m Hadi Tabbal with the DIA, and this is my partner, Natacha Karam. Do you mind if we come in and ask you some questions?”

“Is something wrong?” Galkin inquires.

Not wanting their suspect to spook, Amir puts on his warmest smile. “No; no, sir. We just have a few questions we think you might be able to answer for us. Your background in engineering gives you a certain expertise, you know?”

“Oh… well, sure.” Galkin smiles politely and steps back in the doorway to allow them room to enter. “Please, come right in.”

Jaz and Amir exchange a look before following Galkin inside.

The man swings the door shut behind them and then holds out an arm to gesture toward the interior of his home. “Right this way.”

The cuts across the knuckles of Galkin’s right hand don’t go unnoticed by either teammate as they follow his lead. Amir glances around. The house appears to be just a normal part of suburbia. There is nothing suspicious in sight; the entryway opens up to a living room housing a large television and several bookshelves. Photographs of various individuals line the walls, and a staircase leads up to a second floor.

“Please, have a seat.” Galkin gestures to a sofa, over the top of which a brightly-lit kitchen can be seen.

Rather than sitting down, however, Amir crosses his arms and cuts straight to the chase. “Okay, Galkin, where is he?”

“What?” Galkin looks up from where he had taken a seat in one of the plush armchairs. “Excuse me?”

“You know what I mean,” Amir says in a low, even tone that is more sinister than if he’d simply been yelling. “That truck in your driveway ties you to Adam Dalton’s disappearance, and I want to know what you’ve done with him. You’d better _hope_ he is still alive when we get to him.”

The front door creaks as Preach and McG walk inside. Galkin looks over at them, only to snap his attention back to Amir when the younger man clears his throat.

“You have one minute before I get really angry,” Amir states, his voice calm but carrying the low rumble of threatening thunder.

“I don’t know what this is all about; really I don’t!” Galkin pleads. “The truck isn’t mine!”

Jaz snorts. “We know.”

A series of creaks and muffled footsteps tells Amir and Jaz their teammates are now searching the house. Amir slowly turns back to Galkin and then suddenly lunges forward and puts his hands on the back of the chair on either side of Galkin’s head. The man’s eyes grow wide at the sudden closeness of Amir’s face to his.

“You’re going to tell me everything you know about Adam Dalton’s disappearance!” Amir barks, leaning in and staring the man down. “And you’re going to do it _right now!_ ”

“What?” The man looks shocked. “No, I don’t know anything about anything like that! I _swear!_ ”

Amir narrows his eyes. “Then how do you explain those wounds on your hands?”

“What?” Galkin glances down as if just noticing the split skin for the first time. “This? This is from working on my car earlier. My hand slipped while I was undoing a bolt. I promise nothing is wrong!” He sounds more panicked by the end of his sentence than when he’d started.

Noting the other man’s slow unraveling with satisfaction, Amir leans in farther. “We know about your father, Anton,” he says.

“My… father…? What? What does he have to do with this? My father is dead!”

“And you want revenge for his death,” Amir prompts. He still has his hands on the back of Anton’s chair, where he has yet to straighten up or shift his gaze from Anton’s face. He channels all of his anger into his expression, as if he can force the man to tell them everything just from the ferocity of his stare.

Anton swallows nervously and shoots a look over Amir’s shoulder at Jaz, who is leaning against the wall on the other side of the room. “Please… I promise; I do not know anything about this man for whom you are looking. This… Adam Dalton? Is he your friend? And he is in trouble?” He shakes his head. “I am very sorry to hear that, but why do you think I could tell you anything about where he is?”

“Come on, Anton; stop playing games,” Amir growls. “You knew Dalton was the one responsible for your father’s death, and so you tracked him down here in the States, and then you grabbed him to make him pay for what he’d done.”

At the accusation, Anton grows even paler. “Look,” he says, returning Amir’s gaze, “the only person responsible for my father’s death was my father. He was a criminal. If he had not been so involved with the dirty business of those traffickers,” he spits out the words, then his voice grows sad as he finishes, “then he might still be alive.”

“So you’re saying you knew what he was doing?” Jaz asks, the confusion evident in her voice.

“Yes! And I most certainly did _not_ approve!” Anton looks between the other two with a pleading expression in his eyes. “My father deserved to pay for the lives he had ruined; death was going to find him one way or another. While he was alive, I feared his reach too much to try to leave town.” He practically spits out the words. “But then after the American team raided compound, I was able to get my courage up and apply for a visa to come here, to get away from my father’s associates. To raise my son in peace and help him get over what he had seen,” he adds.

“Wait.” Amir’s attention snaps back to Anton’s face. “What did your son see?”

“Hey, guys!” McG’s voice booms urgently through the house, interrupting whatever reply Anton was about to give. “You need to see this!”

* * *

Dalton leans over as far as he can, the odd angle of his arms pulling painfully at his side as he hunches over and heaves. He hasn’t eaten in hours, so there isn’t much in his stomach to be expelled; after the first few seconds, the motion is more of a dry reflex than anything else. The last blows had been the final straw, and between his headache and the beating, it had been more than his body could tolerate without giving in. Finally, slowly he straightens up, panting heavily. He winces in pain, closes his eyes, and works to catch his breath as the vomiting finally subsides.

“Now, are you ready to admit what you did?” the accented voice asks again. When Dalton doesn’t respond, the man’s voice grows louder. “All I want is a confession!” he snaps angrily. “I want you to admit you murdered Timur Galkin in cold blood—along with his friends you and your team also killed.” He flings an arm back over his shoulder to indicate the light Dalton had noticed earlier. “I will have it on tape. You will pay for your crimes.”

Shaking his head, Dalton licks at his lips. “I… don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Admit it!” the man screams, backhanding Dalton across the face. “Admit what you did!” His top lip curls back in a snarl. “This corrupt American government sends their minions to do their dirty work, and families suffer because of it! I am going to make sure everyone knows how evil you all really are!” He’s ranting now, pacing in front of the chair and waving his arms to accentuate his words. “The world will see! I will prove it!”

Dalton glances at the camera. His team has to be looking for him; he knows it would have only been a matter of time before they’d realized he was missing and started searching. Hopefully enough evidence has been left behind that they are hot on the trail. Hopefully… Until then, he just has to hold out against whatever else this psycho is going to throw at him.

“You aren’t listening!” The words interrupt Dalton’s train of thought. “Just admit it! Admit that the puppet masters in Washington ordered you to Russia to kill innocents! Just like they sent you all over the globe to destroy all of the other lives you have!”

The next blow to his ribs catches Dalton by surprise and drives the breath from his lungs yet again. He’s lost count of the times he’s found himself gasping for air, choking and coughing when it finally comes. “What are you talking about?” he finally manages to get the words out. “I… I don’t know what you mean…”

“Yes. You. Do!” The man is in his face now, his eyes spitting hatred. “And now my grandfather will finally be avenged!” He strides to the corner next to the stairs and retrieves something Dalton hasn’t noticed before now.

The sight of the car battery and jumper cables in the man’s hands sets Dalton’s stomach clenching all over again.

* * *

McG hurries into the room, an open laptop in his hands. “Noah unlocked it remotely,” he explains quickly, setting the device down on the kitchen counter.

Amir glances between McG and Preach. Judging from the expressions on both of their faces, whatever is on the computer isn’t good. He raises an eyebrow in question, only for Preach to shake his head sadly. Amir makes a mental note to ask for the details later. Turning to the computer, Amir studies the screen, and he knows Jaz and Galkin are also doing so over his shoulder. The video playing looks like the feed from a security camera. Whatever the device is, it’s high enough quality they can easily make out the figure strapped to a chair in the center of a small room. The team immediately recognizes Dalton, even though his head is down and his chin is resting on his chest. Dalton’s shoulders are hunched as much as they can be with his wrists secured to the arms of the chair, and it’s obvious to everyone observing just how heavily he is shivering.

Dalton’s shirt is darker in several places, not only with what appears to be sweat soaking the fabric under his arms and around his neck, but also in several circular spots along the front. Amir balls his fists at his sides. He’s seen the same thing too many times during his undercover work with terrorist cells—when operatives had applied electricity to prisoners while searching for answers. Amir feels sick as his stomach clenches at the realization. Now he understands the emotions on Preach and McG’s faces when they’d come down with the laptop.

Whoever has taken Dalton is going to pay.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Amir glances around the circle at his teammates. They all look like he feels. When Amir looks over at Galkin, he immediately notices just how pale the older man is. Either Galkin is a spectacular actor or he actually is horrified by what he’s seeing on the computer. And if it _is_ the latter, then the evidence has to be pointing to someone else… Before Amir can follow his thought to its end, Dalton lifts his head as he hears something off-camera. The blood running down the right side of his face draws an audible gasp from Galkin. Amir knows if he turns to his teammates, he’ll see fiery anger burning in all of their eyes.

Not bothering to conceal his own fury, Amir turns on Galkin. “Where is this?” he yells, pointing a finger at the computer screen. “And don’t you even _think_ about lying to me.”

“No! I know nothing about this video, I swear!” Galkin returns Amir’s gaze with a pleading look. “I wish I could tell you; I do! I feel terrible that—Who is that? Your friend? Teammate?—is in so much trouble right now. If I knew anything, I would tell you! I never would do something like that!”

Amir’s brow furrows in suppressed rage. “Then why is this in your house?”

“Look, please.” Galkin shrinks back as much as the chair will allow. “You’ll have to ask my son about it. That’s his computer, although I have no idea why Leo would have that… I mean…” He drops his head and sighs. “He’s the one who drove the truck here last night, too.” His words are heavy, as if he is beginning to admit the truth to himself as much as to the team.

“What is it, Anton?” Amir demands, crossing his arms as the other man trails off.

Anton glances back up. “My Leo… he has been through a lot. I have done my best to keep him on the right path but… well, he has been spending too much time with the wrong crowd. No matter how hard I try, his anti-American feelings just seem to grow. He refuses to listen to me!” Anton runs a hand through his hair. “This is the whole reason I brought him here, so he could be free from the insane mindset of his grandfather.” Glancing up at the video footage again, Anton closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Ever since the day my father was killed, Leo has only grown angrier.”

 _“Guys, I found something,”_ Noah’s voice comes over their comms just then.

The four teammates exchange glances, and Amir holds up a finger to silence Galkin as he listens to what Noah is saying.

 _“Anton might actually be telling the truth,”_ Noah continues. _“I started digging through the computer once I patched in, and it looks like Leo’s been corresponding with some people back in Russia.”_ The man pauses and sighs heavily before continuing, _“There’s a lot of information here about Dalton.”_

“What?” McG demands, his voice rising.

 _“I’ve got hundreds of emails back and forth between Leo and his contacts in Russia.”_ Noah is talking quickly, and the team can imagine him reporting his findings to Patricia and Hannah as much as to the four of them. _“At first it was just your average chit chat between old friends, but it’s quickly grown out of control in the recent months… They recently told Leo he could prove himself by exacting revenge on Dalton, who was one of the team who attacked their operations.”_

Patricia speaks up now. _“It looks like these friends of Timur Galkin had intelligence connections to find out who was on that team. We’ve already issued warnings to the rest of the men. Some of them are currently deployed and others are stateside…”_ She trails off. _“Guys, they’ve already killed two of that team. Based on this intel, we know who is responsible, and I have people overseas taking action as we speak. The only piece unaccounted for is Leo.”_ Her words hang heavily in the air, as everyone listening knows the portion she’s leaving unsaid.

Then the sound of Noah clearing his throat comes through the comms. _“They sent him instructions on how to concoct a knockout gas—stuff you wouldn’t be able to learn off of the internet. There are also instructions on aerosolizing it.”_

 _“Guys,”_ Hannah jumps in, _“if Leo had the opportunity to get near Dalton, all he would have had to do was spray this stuff in the air and wait things out. It wouldn’t have taken long at all.”_

Amir nods and turns back to Galkin. “How involved was your son in your father’s activities?”

Galkin’s expression grows pained. “I wish I could say not at all. I tried to keep him away, but he idolized his grandfather. When my father’s evil caught up with him, Leo was devastated. I just…” and now his voice breaks, “I just hoped bringing him here would have helped him move past it.”

Patricia’s voice is in their ears again, her urgent tone causing all four team members to straighten slightly. _“Noah’s been going through the rest of the emails on Leo’s computer,”_ she says. _“These people didn’t just send him instructions on the gas or where Dalton lived. They also gave him details on… how to get information.”_ She pauses momentarily and then clears her throat. _“And he sent them a link to view the camera feed once he’d set it up.”_

Galkin glances between them, clearly noticing something has changed but unsure what.

“Anton, is there anywhere your son likes to spend his time?” Amir asks. “We need to know where he would take someone if he wanted to keep them imprisoned. Somewhere no one else would be looking, where his secret would stay safe.”

“What?” Galkin blinks. “You can’t be serious. Leo is a bit fanatical, but he’s a good boy. I can’t believe he’d ever—”

“We have evidence your son is the one behind this,” Amir snaps, pouring every bit of sternness and urgency he can into his words. “You need to help us find him before he takes this any further.”

With a sigh, Anton hangs his head. “Yes,” he finally replies sadly, “there is one place I can think of. It’s not far, but I don’t think he could hide someone there… He likes to go hiking in the nature preserve. He’s been out there more and more recently.” Pain brightens his eyes as he returns Amir’s gaze. “That’s my best guess; I’m sorry.”

* * *

More yelling…

More blows…

And long moments that had stretched on in a blur of pain and light as the jumper cables had connected with his skin again and again…

In his mind’s eye, Dalton can still vividly see the way the sparks had flown when the other man had touched the two ends of the cables together. He’d closed his eyes and tried to ignore what was happening, although that was easier said than done when electricity was coursing through his body and his back was arching and he just couldn’t stop _shaking._

He clenches his fists. He still can’t stop shaking, although he knows that now it’s as much to do with the damp, frigid air as much as with any leftover current still in his system.

Dalton can’t actually say when he was finally left alone. The entire concept of time is becoming increasingly difficult to grasp. Worse still, he cannot focus on any one thing long enough to figure out what his captor wants. The name “Galkin” has been mentioned over and over, and Dalton knows he is expected to remember it—somehow. But try as he might, he can’t recall anyone with that name. Is this Galkin an asset? A target? Dalton has worked with and against hundreds of people over the years. How can he be expected to remember every single person he’s ever met?

The harder he tries to think, the more difficult it becomes to focus, and he grits his teeth as his head begins to swim again. He is slowly losing his already-tenuous grip on reality, and he knows it.

His headache from earlier hasn’t abated and is now pounding what feels like ten times more intensely than when he first woke up on the floor. Not only that, but he’s still shivering; he knows he’s going into shock. A tremor wracks his body as it makes its way up and then back down his spine. Another spasm follows it, then another, then another. Dalton shudders and hunches his shoulders as far as he can, trying to keep in as much body heat as possible. With his wrists and ankles tied to the chair, he can’t wrap his arms around himself or pull his knees up to his chest. He shivers again, desperately wishing it had been cool enough for a jacket the day he’d been captured. His bare arms are doing absolutely nothing to insulate him from the bone-numbing cold.

Taking a breath, he winces at the pull it causes to his left side. He has at least one busted rib—probably more—and any movement of his torso aggravates those injuries. Every time he shakes, the pain flares up along what feels like every nerve ending. He’s tempted to close his eyes and give in to the threatening darkness… but he knows he can’t risk falling asleep.

The stitch in his side seems to intensify with every breath, but Dalton tries to ignore it. He compensates by sagging in the chair and leaning slightly to the side; the less pull at his injured ribs, the less it hurts. He shakes his head to try to clear it but immediately regrets the motion as the room fades to gray. Dalton can’t help the small groan of pain that forces its way out. After a moment, things right themselves, and he swallows hard.

Hold on. That’s all he has to do. His team is on their way. They have to be. He just has to stay awake until they arrive.

Although it is easier said than done. With every passing moment, his head seems to grow heavier. He blinks and tries to focus his thoughts on something— _anything_ —but nothing works. The room begins to spin around him again, and icy fingers begin to take hold of his consciousness. Dalton instinctively tries to curl in on himself, desperate to conserve whatever body heat he can, only to be stopped once again by the plastic ties.

And all the while, the cold and the darkness continue to close in on him. His last intelligible thought is of his team, then his head drops to his chest and the room around him fades away.

* * *

Patricia twists the thin chain in her hand, weaving it between her fingers in what has long since become a comforting gesture. She’s been through many intense missions with her teams over the years, many with Adam himself, and she’s often had to play such missions by ear when actual events deviate from any laid-out plan. This time, however, feels so much different.

There is no communication, no way for her to tell her man the team is coming for him. She doesn’t even know if he’s aware anyone is watching him. And watch is all she can do as Adam does his best to huddle in the chair. Judging from the rate at which he is shivering, he’s waging a losing battle. She clenches her jaw at the impossibility of his situation. The way Galkin has tied him to the chair is forcing him to stay upright, unable to even try to keep himself warm. Over the feed, she can see the blood that is smearing the side of his face and soaking into his shirt. She can also make out the sweat and burns—and just like Amir had at the house, she had known what those marks meant the moment Noah had gotten the feed up on the monitor—and her stomach knots at the pain she knows he must be feeling. She sighs in frustration and clenches the chain in her fist. They’re working on finding him, she knows, but it can’t happen fast enough.

She can see Adam’s lips moving, but he isn’t making an actual sound, so she can’t hear anything over the feed. She steps closer and squints, trying to make out what he is saying. As the words register, she feels her heart drop. His lips are barely moving, but she can just make out what he is telling himself over and over. _“They're coming. Just hold on. They’re coming.”_

“Hold on, Adam,” Patricia echoes in a whisper, her eyes glued to the screen. She knows there is no way he can hear her, but she needs to say the words, if only for herself. “Just hold on. We're coming.”

As if echoing her own words, she hears Jaz’s voice over the comms just then. The other woman is also muttering to herself more than to anyone in particular, but Patricia’s attentive ears pick up Jaz’s low, _“Come on; come on.”_ The team is stuck at Galkin’s home until Patricia and the others can give them something usable. Again, Patricia sighs to herself. She knows the team is used to playing this waiting game while out in the field, but this mission is on a whole different level than anything they’ve done before.

“Almost got it,” Noah reports, his attention focused on the screen in front of him. Lying on his desk is a fresh bag of pork rinds from the vending machine, and he absently reaches for one with his left hand as his right continues to fly over the keys. The snack seems to be Noah’s outlet for stress during high-stakes missions, but no one around him complains. He’s good at what he does, and if an unlimited supply of pork rinds is what gets him to focus, then Patricia is going to make sure that vending machine is never empty.

Hannah is bent over his shoulder, and she glances up when she senses Patricia watching her. “We’ve got the signal originating from somewhere inside of the woods just behind Galkin’s neighborhood,” she offers.

A second later, Noah’s head shoots up, nearly catching Hannah’s nose. “Got it!” he exclaims, oblivious to his near-miss. “I was able to triangulate the signal, because it’s a standard store-bought camera that uses cell service—”

 _“Noah…”_ Preach breaks into the other man’s explanation.

Noah clears his throat at the interruption. “Right. Okay. So I’ve narrowed it down to this area,” he gestures to a portion of the computer screen. “We don’t have any way to tell exactly where he went once he pulled off of the interstate. But,” he adds, “we’re thinking he went into the woods right about here.”

“Mm.” Patricia’s eyes narrow ever so slightly. “Are you sure?”

“It’s the closest entrance between Dalton’s place and Galkin’s house,” Hannah offers. “It makes the most sense based on the information we have.”

Taking a deep breath, Patricia pulls off her glasses and gives her two employees a look. “But it still leaves the team with too large of a radius to search on foot. And with the rain moving into the area, our chances of finding him alive are going to drop to almost nothing by the time night falls.” Her face is deadly serious as she glances up at the corner of the large screen, where the camera feed continues to play in real time.

Noah and Hannah follow her gaze to where the team leader is still strapped to the metal chair. Everyone is grateful Galkin hasn’t returned yet, but they all know the same thing with sinking certainty. With the temperature outside dropping, Adam can’t endure much more—and certainly not an entire night.

“Come on, guys,” Patricia urges. Her tone is taught as she glances around. “There has to be something. Any buildings in the area?”

With a series of quick taps on his keyboard, Noah puts a map up on the big screen so they can all see it. “Yes, but more than we can possibly search in time. Even if we put every agent we have in the field, those woods are too dense for teams to do anything but trek through on foot, and that’s going to take a while for some of the locations.” He frowns. “Not to mention the other homes nearby, there’s at least a dozen storage structures within the signal’s radius. There’s no way to know where they went, and during the day, there are too many people going in and out to use the trails for the team to track Dalton with any sort of trailcraft.”

The room falls silent then, and Patricia’s jaw works as she ponders the problem. “We can can comb the woods, but that’ll take too long—and judging from this, Dalton can’t last the night.” She pauses, then her eyes light up with a thought. “Good thing we have an old-fashioned method.”

“What?” Noah frowns.

Hannah doesn’t say anything, but her expression matches her teammate’s as she arches an eyebrow at their boss.

“We’re wasting time Dalton doesn’t have to try to narrow down the search radius for the team,” Patricia explains. She turns to Noah. “You said the dog could tell something was wrong at the house, right?”

He nods slowly, catching onto what she’s thinking as he begins to reply. “Yes… but Patton’s not an actual service dog,” he points out.

“I know,” Patricia replies. “He might not be officially trained, but he knows Dalton, and it beats sitting here hoping we hit on something or that the team stumbles on him before he succumbs to shock. Hannah,” she instructs, “grab Patton and go meet up with the team. Noah,” she turns back to look him in the eye, “keep digging for any clues.”

Noah and Hannah share a look, then Hannah nods and hurries for the door.

As the younger woman pushes through the exit, Patricia turns back to stare down the large screen. “Let’s bring our man home.”

* * *

_“Okay, we’re here,”_ Preach announces.

Noah glances up at the display at the front of the room, where a blinking circle on the map shows the location of the team’s vehicle. They’re just pulling into a parking lot at the entrance to the vast wooded area where Galkin directed them. He can see Campbell glancing at her watch from where she stands just in front of the monitor, and Noah sighs. He’s looked at the clock in the corner of his computer screen what feels like a hundred times already, and the worry is twisting at his gut. He knows the sun is sinking in the evening sky; if they don’t find Dalton soon… well, Noah doesn’t even want to think about what that will mean.

“Great. Hannah should be just a few minutes out,” Campbell says. She glances over and catches Noah’s eye.

He nods as the sounds of doors opening and closing come through the comms. Noah knows they are all piling out of the SUV, most likely looking around for clues as to where Dalton might be. Even if they have to wait for Hannah to arrive with Patton, there is no way the team won’t be acting already.

There is a brief pause, then McG’s voice sounds over the team’s earpieces. _“Hey, I think I found something.”_

“What is it?” Campbell asks, voicing the question Noah wants to ask as well.

 _“Looks like blood,”_ McG’s voice is grim as he explains what he’s seeing. _“There’s some dark patches on the gravel in the parking lot, and then more leading toward the woods.”_

 _“There’s a narrow dirt path right through there,”_ Amir adds. _“I’d bet anything they went that way.”_

Noah can just imagine the team members leaning over to study the ground and peering through the woods for any sign of where Galkin has taken Dalton. He also knows it will be hard to make out much of anything in the shadows of the trees with the way nightfall is creeping into the area. Glancing up at the screen, he breathes a sigh of relief to see the symbol on the map indicating Hannah’s position. Her announcement of, _“We’re here,”_ confirms what the ops team sees on their screens—and what the team on the ground is seeing as well.

Now all they have to do is hope Patton lives up to Campbell’s expectations.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear whatever federal agencies are now tracking me because of my internet search history, I do not plan on actually doing any of this to any real person. My research on the medical effects of certain things are completely related to fictional events. Promise. I just have practically zero experience outside of fiction, so I had to try to find something to make it seem realistic.
> 
> Also, I really should learn by now that I make way too many commitments over a holiday weekend and just not to stress over being unable to get online to post things... I never seem to learn this thing, no matter how many years I've been doing this.

Dog tries to leap out of the driving machine as soon as the female two-leg opens the door, only to be stopped as she blocks the opening and reaches for his collar.

“Hold on, Patton,” she soothes, reaching for the lead on the floor beside him.

As she clips it onto his collar, he cranes his neck to peer around her. There are so many trees! Dog is used to home, which is full of open grass and sand. His nose twitches as he takes in the breeze. He can smell other four-legs nearby, and he feels the urge to go exploring as far as he can as quickly as he can.

Then he tilts his head at another scent. His pack! His pack is here! Dog’s tail starts thumping against the seat at the familiar smell of the two-legs. As soon as the female two-leg in front of him steps back, Dog jumps to the ground and looks around for his pack. He knows they’re here; he can smell them. Something tugs at his neck, and he turns to huff in annoyance. Dog is still trying to get used to the idea of a lead; Alpha has only ever used one a few times before their long ride in the big, noisy metal bird. Now, it seems to be a favorite toy of every two-leg Dog meets.

The strange female two-leg Dog has just met that day is now reaching inside of the driving machine for something, but Dog surges forward and heads for his pack’s scent. This two-leg is a strange creature; she smells a little familiar, but Dog isn’t sure why. He’s never met her before. But she kind of smells like the male two-leg who brought him to the place that smelled just like Alpha—

Alpha! Dog blinks. Where is Alpha? He can smell the rest of the pack just fine; he can identify each of them by their scent. But although he smells four of his fellow packmates, Alpha is not there. This is very not good.

Alpha’s smell had been all over that place where Dog had gone earlier. Dog had known right away something was not right; there had been a scent Dog did not like at all, along with blood Dog immediately knew was Alpha’s. And now that Alpha is not here with the pack, Dog knows for sure Alpha must be in trouble.

He tugs harder against the lead and notes with satisfaction as it slips out of the two-leg’s hand and falls to the ground. Without waiting for permission, Dog bolts around the driving machine. His paws scrabble in the rocks as he tries to gain purchase to run to the pack. He misses his pack. He hasn’t seen them in forever! When they had gotten off of the big, rumbly bird, the pack had split up, and then Alpha had left Dog with more strange two-legs. These two-legs had lots of cold things they seemed to like to poke Dog with, but they did have lots of yummy treats they kept giving Dog. That and the nice female two-leg who had come by his kennel multiple times to give Dog lots of pets made up for all of the pokings.

Dog sees the pack now, just on the other side of the clearing, and his tail starts wagging harder. They _are_ here! He bounds across the space to where they are waiting for him, and the big male two-leg gets down on one knee to greet Dog. Dog immediately starts licking the two-leg’s face in greeting, whining with happiness. His pack! He has missed his pack! He wiggles happily as the two-leg rubs his ears and side, then Dog pulls away and runs around the group, sniffing at their hands and taking count. They are all there except for Alpha, and Dog stiffens as he stops and looks around, sensing the anxiety radiating from the two-legs. Something is wrong. Dog just is not sure what yet.

A low whine grumbles in his throat as he circles them again, then he darts over to the driving machine just past the pack. Alpha has to still be in there. The whole pack wouldn’t be anywhere without Alpha; Dog has never seen them apart like this. Alpha must be inside the big black machine. Dog circles it a few times as he searches for a way in, then stops and paws the ground by one of the wheels. Why is Alpha not coming out? Is he stuck inside? Is he still hurt from the blood Dog smelled at the house before? Someone from the pack needs to come open the door so Alpha can get out. Dog glances over at the pack and barks. They just must not know Alpha needs help, Dog decides as he sneezes in frustration. He loves his pack, but they are not the smartest bunch of creatures he’s ever met. They can’t smell very well at all, so maybe they just don’t know Alpha needs their help.

He barks again, glaring over at the two-legs as they look at each other. What is wrong with them? Can’t they tell something is wrong? Whining, he turns in a circle and barks more loudly. The new female two-leg, the one who drove Dog to meet the pack, comes up beside the pack and says something to them. Dog’s ears prick at the word “Dalton.” That’s one of the words the two-legs use for Alpha! Finally the pack must know they need to do something to help Alpha! Now they just need to come over and open the door. Dog yips excitedly and bounces on his back legs, trying to get their attention.

Finally, the older male two-leg takes a deep breath and then starts toward Dog. Finally! Dog pants happily, his tongue lolling to the side. Alpha will be able to join them, and Dog will be able to make sure he is all okay. Something inside Dog is still worried about the blood from the house, but he knows he just needs to see Alpha. Then everything will be fine.

Dog steps back as the door opens, eagerly waiting for Alpha to climb out. His tail wags as he quickly turns in a circle, expecting Alpha will be rubbing his ears any minute. But then a moment passes and Alpha doesn’t appear. Dog pulls up short and tilts his head. This is not good. Where is Alpha? Does Alpha need his help? The other two-leg is now leaning inside of the driving machine, looking for something, and Dog _wuff_ s impatiently. He jumps up on his hind legs and puts his front feet on the two-leg’s back, trying to see past him inside.

The two-leg turns around in surprise at the feeling of Dog’s paws, and Dog takes advantage of the opening to quickly drop back to all four paws and then leap up onto the seat. He looks around wildly in search of Alpha. He still can’t smell Alpha anywhere. This is not good. Dog whimpers, puts his paws on the back of the seat, and looks over it into the big area in the back—but Alpha is still not there.

Dropping back to the seat, Dog looks around the empty interior once more, then jumps out of the machine and runs around it again. He whined as he glances back at the pack. Where is Alpha? Dog’s ears droop back against his head as he rounds the driving machine again and stops next to the open door. His tail is hanging low, too, as he glances up at the two-leg beside him.

Wait. What is that smell? That smell is Alpha! Where did that come from?

His ears prick back up as his nose twitches at the familiar scent. It’s faint, so Dog knows Alpha himself isn’t nearby, but what else can it be?

Then he catches sight of the item the two-leg is holding. Dog jumps up on his back feet and does an awkward balancing dance as he tries to sniff at it. He happily drops back down as the two-leg lowers his hand so Dog can easily reach it. The item is one of those pieces of clothes the two-legs sometimes wear on top of their other clothes. Dog starts sniffing the item all over, immediately noticing how heavily it smells of Alpha. His tail starts wagging wildly as he takes it in. Alpha! It’s Alpha’s; Dog knows it! Now all Dog needs is for Alpha himself to be there.

“Good boy,” the two-leg says, patting Dog on the head.

Dog barely stops to acknowledge the gesture as he paws at the jacket and whines.

“He got it, Preach?” the big two-leg calls. Dog can hear the rocks on the ground crunching as the man hurries over to join them.

The older two-leg stands again, taking the jacket out of Dog’s reach. Dog barks at him. What does he think he’s doing? Dog isn’t done with that! But the two-leg doesn’t acknowledge Dog as he turns to reply to his bigger packmate. “I think so, McG,” he says. Then he puts a hand under Dog’s chin and looks Dog straight in the eye. “Patton, where’s Top?” he asks.

Top! Alpha! Dog barks excitedly and turns in a circle. This must mean they’re going find Alpha! Finally!

The older two-leg points at the trees now. “Where’s Top? Find Top, Patton!”

Find? Find Alpha? Dog tilts his head. What does that mean? Has the rest of the pack _lost_ Alpha? These creatures really are terribly useless. Dog sneezes. How can they manage to lose Alpha? It’s probably because Alpha left Dog at that place with the pokey things. This never would have happened if Dog had stayed with the pack. Now it seems it’s up to Dog to find Alpha and show his pack how to use their noses. Maybe this time they’ll learn a lesson on how to tell when their packmates are in trouble.

With Alpha’s scent fresh in his nose, Dog spins in another circle around where he has been standing, then lowers his nose to the ground. If these two-legs can’t be trusted with keeping track of themselves, Dog is just going to have to do it himself. He moves away from where the two-legs are still standing in the direction the older two-leg had pointed. Apparently, the two-legs at least have an idea of where Alpha might be because Dog can smell Alpha’s scent on the ground just in front of the opening in the trees. The coppery smell of blood is back again, and Dog growls. Alpha must be hurt. This is not good.

Dog keeps his nose to the ground, sniffing as he follows the scent. Alpha must have gone down this path, he decides. The smell is strong enough that it has to be where the two-leg has gone. With a small howl, Dog starts forward, bounding down the path as he follows Alpha’s trail. The trees fly by on either side as he runs as fast as his legs can carry him. He takes a turn just a little too fast and has to quickly scramble to keep his footing. He has to hurry. Alpha is nearby! Dog must find Alpha before the two-leg gets into any more trouble!

There are many other four-legs around; Dog can tell by the smells and sounds mixed in with all of the other two-legs’ scents. On any other day, he would be eagerly chasing the small four-legs between the trees, but there is no time for that now. Right now is the time to find Alpha. Dog can chase the little four-legs later.

A moment later, he realizes he can’t hear any noises behind him and stops short. Where is the pack? They told Dog to find Alpha, so why aren’t they keeping up? Dog huffs out a sigh and turns back to find the pack. Cocking his head to listen, he can just make out the crashing of something moving through the forest. He runs back down the path a few yards, then rounds a curve to find the two-legs running toward him. He pulls up short and barks insistently at them, trying to tell them to hurry up. Two-legs are so slow. Dog darts back to where the pack is slowly making progress down the trail. They know Alpha is missing, so why aren’t they moving faster? Dog runs around them, barking encouragement, then takes off back down the path in the direction he’s been following Alpha’s scent. He hopes the two-legs can keep up better this time. They need to, if they’re going to help Alpha.

Dog continues down the path, his nose lifted and twitching periodically as he follows Alpha’s scent. Glancing over his shoulder, he notices the pack is again lagging behind. At least they are close enough now that he can see them—and more importantly, they can see him. He doesn’t have to worry about them getting lost this time. Turning back to the dirt and leaves in front of him, he continues along, then pulls up short as he suddenly loses track of it. He turns in a circle and runs back and forth, trying to find the scent that seems to have disappeared. Meanwhile, the pause gives the two-legs time to catch up to where Dog is searching. They stop to wait for him to find Alpha’s trail again.

“What is it, Patton?” the older male two-leg asks. “What’s wrong?”

Why is he asking that? Dog is confused. Why can’t they see he is trying to find the scent as quickly as he can? This whole thing will go a lot faster if two-legs had better noses. Dog just ignores the other voices from the pack and continues hunting. He lifts his head as he catches something on a light breeze blowing his way, and with a _yap_ of satisfaction, he scrambles over a fallen log and starts searching the ground on the other side of it. It’s not the same well-traveled path they have been going down so far, but, rather, Alpha seems to have moved away from it and deeper into the woods.

There is a faint path there, but it is narrower than the other, and Dog looks over his shoulder to see the two-legs are now following him in a single line. There’s another scent mixed in with Alpha’s, Dog realizes, that was also on the first path. He recognizes it from the house when he first smelled Alpha was in trouble. This is not good.

Another few minutes and turns of the path later, Dog rounds a large tree to see the trees opening up a little more in front of him. A building sits in the middle of the clearing. It is not very big, and everything inside and around it seems to be quiet. Dog can hear noises of other four-legs in the trees around him, but he is only focused on one thing right now: Alpha. Alpha is clearly in danger, and Dog needs to help him.

Alpha’s scent goes right up to the building, and Dog rushes there himself. He starts scratching at the bottom of the door, trying to find a way inside. Alpha is inside! Dog can smell him!

Finding he can’t open the door himself, Dog spins back to where the pack is just coming out of the trees into the little clearing around the building. They’re all alert as they move toward Dog, and he notices they now have boomsticks in their hands. Dog has seen these boomsticks before; he remembers they are noisy and hurt his ears. Hopefully, none of the pack has to use theirs, although if it helps Alpha, Dog supposes he won’t mind.

The female two-leg who brought Dog to the pack and the older two-leg hurry around to the back of the building. Dog runs ahead of them eagerly. Maybe they will find another way inside to get to Alpha! When he circles the building, however, there is nothing to see there at all, so Dog turns and runs back to rejoin the others, ignoring the two two-legs who are double-checking the area Dog just searched.

As Dog rejoins the rest of the pack, the female two-leg is just opening the door, and Dog wags his tail eagerly. He pushes forward to nose in between the others and get inside, but the third male two-leg puts a hand on his collar and whispers, “Hold on, Patton.”

Dog growls in frustration. The two-leg just doesn’t understand! Dog should be the first one inside! He needs to find Alpha!

The two-legs move carefully as they step up through the doorway, keeping their boomsticks lifted in front of them. Dog tenses, waiting for the grip on his collar to be released so he can search for Alpha himself. He can see inside through the open doorway, and he thrusts his nose forward as he tries to take in any scents coming from the interior of the building. Dog doesn’t see anyone inside, and his eyes narrow in confusion. This did not make sense. Alpha’s scent is so strong; he has to be here! Dog pulls against the hand on his collar now, anxious to get inside and look for himself. Alpha is nearby somewhere; Dog just knows it.

“He’s not here, Amir,” the big two-leg says, lifting a hand to adjust the strap of the bag hanging from his shoulder.

Dog whines and steps backward, pulling against the hand still holding him back. The two-legs just are not looking hard enough. Alpha is here! Dog knows it. He can smell Alpha! Why can’t they smell him too?

Then he feels the hand loosen its grip, and he pulls free and darts inside. His nose is twitching with how much he can actually smell his pack leader, and he frantically sniffs the ground. Why can he smell Alpha so well from here? There is no Alpha to be seen, but Dog knows what he smells. There has to be some explanation! Dog just has to find it. Footsteps sound in the doorway now, but he doesn’t glance in that direction. He is completely focused on finding Alpha right now.

Dog follows the scent over to the corner of the room. Several boxes are stacked up on top of one another, and he tilts his head at them. This makes no sense. It smells like Alpha is right underneath him…

“Hey!” The short female two-leg, the one from Dog’s pack, comes up beside Dog, but she’s yelling at the other pack members rather than Dog. “Guys, there’s something under these crates!”

The rest are there in a second, crowding in to look. Dog doesn’t even pay attention to whose hands are moving the boxes away from the corner. He’s zeroed in on an outline of a door in the floor. This has to be where Alpha is!

Dog’s tail starts wagging harder and harder in anticipation as the two-legs remove the last of the boxes. He whines and paws at the floor, trying to tell them to go faster. Surely they can tell that Alpha is in trouble now; Dog can see it in the way their postures have changed.

The minute they finally open the door, Dog does not wait to be told to stay put. He sticks his nose in the widening crack, and, as soon as there is enough room, he wriggles through and bolts down the staircase that has suddenly appeared in front of him.

* * *

From his place at his desk, Noah watches the screen with bated breath. He can see Campbell a few feet ahead of him where she is standing. The straightness of her shoulders might be interpreted by almost anyone else as simple focus, but Noah knows there’s more to it than that. His boss is not only focused on the mission, she’s _completely_ focused on it. So much so that Noah pities anyone who tries to interrupt her before the team radios back that they’ve found Dalton.

None of the team are suited up in full gear, so those waiting back at the DIA can’t see what’s going on via body cams. However, the feed from Galkin’s camera is still displaying clearly across the screen where Noah has set it up. Although it doesn’t give those observing any indication of how close the team is to finding Dalton, it does give them a front row seat to whenever the team finally makes it into the room where their leader is being held. Noah just hopes the first building they find is the right one; he’s not sure he can handle the stress of listening to the team storming someplace only to learn it’s the wrong one by continuing to watch Galkin’s uninterrupted feed.

Noah can also see the digital indicators of where the team is currently progressing down the wooded trail. They had even connected one to Patton’s collar, so a sixth red circle is blinking on the map on the screen. While the human team members’ signals are all clustered together in the same general area, Patton’s is much farther ahead, and Noah can’t help but smirk. He’s familiar first-hand with how much energy the dog has, and it seems this new excursion has done nothing to dampen Patton’s spirits. Hopefully the way Patton is running ahead of the team, then back around them, then ahead again means he’s hot on Dalton’s trail. If all that’s happening is that the dog has found a squirrel to chase, then Noah isn’t sure what their next move is going to be. It’s already dusk; Dalton can’t hold out against nighttime temperatures—and that’s assuming Galkin doesn’t return until the morning.

Noah sighs and rubs the back of his neck, then reaches for another pork rind as he returns his attention to his computer. He’s been trying to track down the youngest Galkin, but so far, his search has yielded nothing. It’s as if Leo dropped off the face of the earth after leaving Dalton the last time. Noah frowns. He needs to find Leo, as much for Dalton’s sake as for the rest of the team. No one is going to sleep easily until they have the guy responsible.  No one has said a word about it yet, but with Hannah out in the field, Noah feels the weight of the search directly on his shoulders.

Trying to keep half of his attention on what’s happening over the comms, Noah leans in toward his monitor and lets his fingers fly over the keys. They have Leo’s cell number from his father, and although the device is currently off, it’s just a simple matter of following the right breadcrumbs…

 _“We’ve found something,”_ Preach’s report through the comms immediately prompts Noah to look up at the map on the big screen. The team is about a mile off the main walking trail they’ve been following, and Noah frowns when he sees nothing to indicate what Preach is referencing.

“What is it?” Campbell echoes Noah’s thoughts.

 _“Looks like some sort of storage shed,”_ Preach continues. _“It’s seen better days; that’s for sure.”_

Frowning, Noah switches between windows on his computer to pull up the map and zoom in further. “I don’t see any structures near where you are,” he observes in confusion. “Unless… I wonder…” he trails off as an idea occurs to him and his fingers quickly begin flying across the keys as he searches for information to back up his hunch. After a moment of digging, he looks up again to meet Campbell’s gaze. “It’s an old building that was supposed to have been demolished several years ago. Whoever was in charge of the project reported the wrong information, and the map apparently was updated with no quality control process.”

 _“That’s why it didn’t come up when we did a review of the area,”_ Hannah says. The frustration is evident in her voice as well. _“We thought there was nowhere nearby for Galkin to have brought Dalton.”_

Noah recognizes the look on Campbell’s face. He’s seen it before. The person responsible for the map snafu will be lucky if all they get is their head chewed off. No one has to say it for everyone to realize they might have found Dalton hours sooner if the map of the park had been updated correctly.

Now Preach speaks up again. _“Approaching the structure now.”_

“Let me know the minute you find anything,” Campbell acknowledges.

Noah’s computer suddenly chirps, pulling his attention from the team entering the shed as he quickly skims the information now displayed on his screen. He grins. “Gotcha,” he mutters as he types in a final sequence. “Hey, boss, I found Galkin! He’s—”

Just then, a loud noise draws his attention to the video playing alongside the map of the team’s location. It only takes the one look at the screen for Noah to start punching the buttons necessary to enlarge the video. He stands as soon as he finishes, watching along with everyone else in the room as the team appears from off-camera and rushes over to Dalton.

The dog is there, eagerly trying to reach Dalton’s face and having to be held back by Hannah. Those observing can hear Patton’s insistent cries as he pulls and strains to break free from her grasp.

Amir and Jaz are not visible, and between the voices coming through the comms, Noah knows they’re guarding the entrance to the shed. McG slings his medical bag off his shoulder and shining a penlight in Dalton’s eyes as he checks him over. Meanwhile, Preach already his knife out and is making quick work of the zip ties around the team leader’s wrists and ankles. Noah wants to ask a million questions—all of the “Is he okay?” variety—but he holds back to allow the other men to work. He knows they’ll fill him in as soon as they can. When he glances over at Campbell, he knows she’s having similar thoughts.

 _“Top? Top, come on. Can you hear me?”_ McG is gently prodding at Dalton’s abdomen, shaking his head. _“Breathing is shallow,”_ he reports over the comms. _“And it sounds like he’s having trouble with it. Pretty sure he’s got at least a couple broken ribs. Definite concussion judging from this bruising, and…”_ He sighs. _“Burns and cuts, too, and at least some internal damage. Probably more that’ll come up when we can do a more thorough examination.”_

Campbell speaks up now. “Can we move him?” There’s a faint metallic sound as she fingers the chain in her fist.

Over the video, Noah can see McG and Preach exchanging looks. Then he realizes Dalton has yet to acknowledge any of the team since they’ve arrived, and his stomach twists even more tightly. Dalton is staring straight ahead, and even McG’s poking at his injured side hasn’t prompted any sort of response from the man. The only movement Noah has been able to make out is that Dalton hasn’t stopped shivering. Noah’s no expert, but he knows that’s bad. Watching as McG drapes an emergency blanket over Dalton’s shoulders, Noah holds back a deep sigh. He’s got to put his worry aside for now; it’s not going to help anyone. There’s too much that still needs his attention.

“Let’s get a chopper out there,” Campbell says, nodding at a young woman beside her. “Now. It’ll be tight, but there should be enough room for them to land in the clearing by the structure. The less movement for Dalton, the better right now. Make sure they have a backboard and whatever else they need.” As the agent hurries to obey, Campbell turns to Noah. “You found Galkin,” she says. It’s a statement, not a question, as she acknowledges his exclamation from just before the team breached the basement.

Noah nods emphatically. He makes the decision to leave the video up on the screen, but a quick succession of keystrokes later shrinks the feed from the camera slightly and relegates it to the top right corner of the screen. The image of the map zooms out from showing just the team’s position and pans to the east a few miles. Noah taps another button, and a red pin appears on the map. “I tried tracking Galkin’s phone, but he’d turned it off and took out the battery, which is why I was unable to find anything on it earlier. However, I’ve been monitoring his girlfriend’s number, and she just got a call a few minutes ago from an unknown number. I was able to triangulate its location and use cameras in the area. It took a little time, but thankfully our man had a lot to say, and I was able to ID him purchasing a number of items—including a prepaid phone—from a convenience store in the area.”

“Where is he now?” Campbell wants to know.

“On his way back to the nature preserve as we speak,” Noah supplies.

Campbell nods in satisfaction as she studies the map. “This puts him passing right by the county sheriff’s station in a few minutes,” she points at a spot on the screen. Noah watches as her gaze flickers back to the feed, then she turns back to him with a smile that somehow manages to be pleased and humorless all at once. “Let’s call in a favor, shall we?”

* * *

It’s cold. So very, very cold. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t seem to warm up. A little voice in the back of his head warns him that his body temperature is dropping too drastically to possibly be safe. And he knows it is—of course he knows it. He just doesn’t know what he’s supposed to _do_ about it. He’s been trying to warm up for what feels like forever, but to no avail. He can’t even seem to wrap his arms around himself in an attempt to keep his body heat in… and since when had his arms and legs not worked anyway?

There’s a weight on his shoulders he can’t shake. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. Is something crushing him? Should he be concerned? Raising a hand, he tries to bat it away, and the movement of his shoulder seems to work in removing a little of whatever it is that’s pressing down on him. He shrugs the other shoulder, trying to clear the weight off of his back, and it works for a moment. But then, seconds later, it’s back and something is tugging it down on him more firmly.

Belatedly, he realizes his arms seem to be working again, but he has no time to wonder of this fact. There’s a bright light from somewhere above him now, and it’s directly in his eyes, and _ohhh_ but there goes his headache again. It flares up with a rushing roar, prompting him to double over with a groan of pain as his whole head seems to fill up with a million jackhammers. He starts to put both hands on either side of his head, but then the pain in his side explodes in white-hot fire.

He vaguely feels himself falling, and the next thing he knows, he’s flat on his back and the fuzzy world around him seems to be vibrating at an odd frequency. He tries to sit up, only to find he can’t move. His feet won’t move in either direction, he can’t lift his hands, and something is pinning his chest down. He sucks in a frantic breath of panic, sending pain waves up into his head, but he doesn’t give them any recognition at the moment. At the moment, all he cares about is escaping whoever is restraining him. He thrashes from side to side, trying to free himself. Everything is still blurry, which is almost as concerning as the fact that he just _cannot move_.

There’s movement to his right, then something pricks his arm. Before he can fight it, the fuzzy light around him grows dull and dark, and everything slowly fades away.

* * *

Noah and Campbell stride into the hospital waiting room to find Hannah and the rest of the team in five of the hard plastic chairs lined up throughout the space. Campbell immediately heads for the nurses’ station while Noah carts his cardboard tray of coffees over to where the other five are seated.

“How is he?” Noah asks, handing out the paper cups to the others.

Preach nods his thanks as he takes the offered drink. “We haven’t heard yet.”

“He’s still in with the docs,” McG supplies, removing the lid on his cup to blow on the steaming liquid. “They haven’t told us anything else.”

Sighing, Noah hands the last cup to Amir and takes a seat next to the other man. He knows that the uncertainty is killing them, even more than it is him. There’s nothing anyone can do right now, and that’s worse than just waiting for orders because there’s nothing they can do at all. Even for a team that regularly practices patience in their everyday operations, this waiting is excruciating.

Amir glances over at him. “Did we get Galkin?”

Thankfully, Noah can respond affirmatively to that. He’s not sure what he would do if he had to tell the others that the man who… that Dalton’s captor was still at large. “Yeah. Local sheriff picked him up for us. Galkin was on his way back to the shed when they got him.” He leaves out the details of what had been found in Galkin’s trunk that the terrorist had picked up on his errands. The team doesn’t need to know any of that right now—if ever. Right now, all they need to know is that the man who has caused all of this pain is finally in custody where he belongs.

“Noah,” Preach asks, settling back in his chair and taking a long sip of his coffee, “is it true that Galkin has been carrying this grudge against Dalton and his former team all these years?” There’s a look akin to sadness in the older man’s eyes as he asks the question. Noah knows Preach is thinking about his own children and what witnessing something like what Leo had witnessed would do to an impressionable mind.

Noah sighs. “Yep,” he replies. “Leo had been visiting his grandfather when the team hit their location, and he saw Dalton fire the shot. He’d been hiding so no one knew he was there at first, and then when they searched the house, he was just some scared kid.” He shakes his head. “He let his anti-American sentiments grow over the years and wanted to fight back, and he’d stayed in touch with people back home who had worked with his grandfather.”

While Noah is speaking, Hannah nods along. He pauses, and she voices her agreement. “Leo idolized his grandfather and was devastated at the loss. It was the perfect opportunity for the rest of the trafficking cell to exploit.”

“Sins of the fathers,” Preach comments sagely. “Although,” he quickly adds at the eyebrows that go up among the group, “in this case, the sins of the grandfather.”

The looks on everyone’s faces are summed up when McG snorts. “Preach, don’t go around confusing us now,” he says, reaching over to clap the other man on the shoulder.

Preach blinks as the others chuckle. “Now hold up. Who’s confused by what?” he asks good-naturedly.

McG shrugs. “Well, normally you’d say something that makes absolutely no sense considering the current situation, but that was almost poetic.”

Now it’s Amir’s turn to snort. “You wouldn’t know poetry if it knocked you upside the head.”

The others chuckle, the humor relieving some of the tension that’s been growing as the team has waited on answers about Dalton. In the next minute, their laughter fades as they catch sight of Campbell heading their way. Everyone falls silent as their eyes follow her approach. None of them have heard anything from the medical staff yet, and as they watch Campbell, they all find themselves wondering just what her report will be.

“What did they say?” Preach asks as soon as Campbell is close enough for conversation.

She sighs and squares her shoulders. “It was close for a while there. McG, your initial observations were right. He’s got several cracked ribs, one of which came dangerously close to puncturing a lung.” Campbell looks around the group seriously. “He’s got numerous cuts, bruises, and mild hypothermia. He also suffered a concussion, but they won’t know just how bad it is until he wakes up. Besides that, he also has burns over his chest and abdomen and some tissue damage from where the current passed through his body.”

“But he’s going to be okay, though, right?” Noah asks. Even though he knows it could have been much worse, he’s slightly overwhelmed by the sudden amount of information coming all at once. And this isn’t just information on his computer screen or coming over a radio transmission from someone halfway around the world. This is about his friend and teammate who’s lying just down the hall from him.

“Yeah, Noah; they think he’ll make a full recovery,” Campbell responds. Her audience lets out audible sighs of relief, and she smiles around the circle at them. “The doctors are actually pleasantly surprised it isn’t worse.”

Jaz speaks next. “Can we see him now?”

“Yes,” Campbell nods. “He’s still sleeping right now, but we can go in as long as Dalton doesn’t get too excited when he does wake up.”

She’s barely done speaking before the team is scrambling to their feet.

* * *

He doesn’t know how long he’s been unconscious. He’s long-since lost track of time. Everything seems so foggy as he tries to think back… seeming to blend together in one long memory of pain, yelling, blows, light, and even more pain. But, then, following those blurry memories are flashes of something more… of lying flat on his back while everything moved around him, of helicopter blades and sirens, of bright lights and fuzzy faces overhead… He can’t concentrate as hard as he needs to, because the harder he tries to think, the more his head continues to pound. With a groan, he reaches up to rub his temple—only to be stopped by something holding his hand back.

The memory of being tied to the chair in the basement immediately springs to mind, and panic clenches at his stomach. But before he can follow his thoughts any further, there’s movement from somewhere beside him, and whatever is holding his right hand shifts.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” The voice is low and gravelly.

Dalton knows he knows this voice from… somewhere. He just can’t place it right now.

“Come on. Open your eyes, Top.”

A calloused but gentle hand is on his forehead now. Who is that? Is that Preach? How did Preach get here?

Reluctantly obeying, Dalton blinks at his dim surroundings. He shifts his head to the right slightly and squints at the shadowy figure he can just barely make out. His teammate’s smiling face comes into focus a moment later, and Dalton grins lazily. “Hey,” he manages, coughing as the word scratches his throat.

Preach’s hand now appears in his field of vision. “Here, open,” he commands.

Dalton obeys more out of instinct than because he’s really registered the order. When the ice chip hits his tongue and starts to melt in a rush of cold moisture, he’s glad he has. Something is beeping nearby, but he pays no attention to it. “How…” His voice catches again, and he clears his throat and gladly accepts more ice from the other man. He closes his eyes and lies back against the pillows, letting the chips dissolve and trickle down his throat before attempting another question. “How’d you find me?” he asks a moment later, cracking open an eye to look over at the other man.

Preach tilts his head in a nod as he replies, “Teamwork, brother. Teamwork and prayer.”

“And one very persistent dog,” Amir chimes in.

Shifting his line of vision while trying not to move his head, Dalton can just see the other man as he comes through the doorway with a cup of coffee in hand. “Patton,” Dalton says in response to the words, a small smile spreading across his face as he watches the rest of the team file inside behind Amir.

Nodding, Amir moves over to the oddly plastic-looking couch along the far wall. “Seriously, Dalton, for not being a trained tracker, he certainly knew what he was doing.”

Hannah makes a face as she takes a seat on the other end of the couch. “Dalton, you’ve got to train that mutt better,” she complains. “He peed in my car, you know.”

That pulls a laugh from Dalton, although he immediately regrets it as pain ripples up his side. The medication dulls it somewhat, but he can’t quite ignore it either.

“Sorry.” Hannah’s expression tells Dalton she’s belatedly realized her error.

He shakes his head good-naturedly, but whatever the doc has him on is starting to kick in the longer he’s awake, and he finds he can’t quite formulate the words he wants to say.

In the silence, Noah jumps in. “Yeah, well, he chewed up my floor mats between the vet’s office and Dalton’s house this morning.”

“This isn’t a competition!” she shoots back, although even Dalton can hear the mirth in her retort.

The number of voices around him start to rise as the others join in, and Dalton’s pretty sure he can make out Patricia shushing everyone else, but he doesn’t even try to focus on the words themselves. All he needs to know for now is that his team is here. Everything else can wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that’s all, folks! Thanks again to everyone who read and enjoyed my story. It means the world to me that anyone would take the time to look at what I make. And then double thanks to those of you kudo-ing, bookmarking, and reviewing. I love hearing what you think and seeing that you’re interested in my story. I can’t express it enough, so I’ll just say thank you one more time. You all rock!


End file.
